


God tries to drown you but you can swim

by Lake (beyond_belief)



Series: been rearranged [1]
Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, Artistic Liberties, Drift Compatibility, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 02:00:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21153719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyond_belief/pseuds/Lake
Summary: They're the first class of Rangers, the trial run, the front lines of watching the world change.





	God tries to drown you but you can swim

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who has been working on this bullshit on and off for FIVE YEARS? Me, that's who. 
> 
> Title stolen from someone's tweet response to a thread about how the lions in Noah's Ark sets always have manes and thus are gay lions: https://twitter.com/mtgingering/status/1138290747378212865 
> 
> I have of course taken some very serious liberties with actual _Pacific Rim_ canon.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who didn't yell at me when I screamed about this on my own twitter, and J. and S. for beta duties. All remaining terribleness is my own and not their fault. 
> 
> Brad Colbert/Sadness remains my GK OTP, ten years on.

  


_I should have known from the beginning_  
_in truth_  
_I did know from the beginning_

  


Brad is deep in the guts of Desert Freedom when the message comes that there's a senior recruit at the Academy who is Drift compatible, and that he should proceed immediately to Juneau.

He climbs out of the jaeger, does his best to scrub the stubborn grease and oil from his hands, and goes up the winding metal catwalks to LOCCENT. "Gunny, you heard the message for me?" he asks Wynn.

Wynn smiles and claps him on the shoulder. "Chopper will be ready in ten. Better go pack."

"Pack? What the fuck, Gunny, if it's anything like the last two times, I won't be there even twenty-four hours."

"Chin up, Brad. They'll find you someone eventually. Good luck."

Brad goes to pack an overnight bag just in case: toothbrush, shaving kit, and a change of skivvies. 

The recruit they've found for him is a dark-eyed, dark-haired live wire of a dude who starts talking the moment Brad jumps out of the helicopter and doesn't stop. At first, Brad thinks it's because Ray is nervous, but he soon discovers that it's the way Ray is when he's had so much coffee it would kill some smaller livestock. 

"You ever Drift with anyone before?" Brad asks him, lifting the paper coffee cup out of Ray's hands and dropping it in the next garbage can they pass. 

Ray barely seems to notice. "Had a bunch of trial runs with a couple other recruits who had compatible tests, but never with anyone outside the Academy. I hope your mind isn't like theirs, bro, no offense. These dudes, their minds - all monster smash, all the time, until suddenly it was old sob stories about pissing their pants in kindergarten or some shit."

It takes Brad a second to process that. "I doubt you'll find those issues with me, Ray."

"Astounding. I am so happy to hear that, dude, you don't even know -"

Brad tunes him out easily as they suit up. It won't matter in the Drift. 

Juneau has them set up for a trial by the time they're in the drivesuits. Over the comms, Brad can hear Ray humming something that sounds vaguely familiar but that he can't place. "You make noise all the time?" Brad asks him as they start locking into place. 

"What? Oh, the song. Guess I'm not even thinking about it sometimes." He grins at Brad through the faceplate. "Just tell me if you want me to shut up, dude."

"Just no country music," Brad mutters. "You ready for this?"

"Hit me."

  


_NASCAR on a flickering television set in a small dusty room, cars flying around the track until one of them crashes into another. The taste of charcoal-grilled hot dogs and homemade lemonade. A woman in an American flag t-shirt dancing to the radio with a wooden spoon in her hand, something cooking on the stove. Pick-up baseball in an empty lot, gravel and skinned knees._

_The flickering television again, this time a news report of the first Kaiju. CNN's constant scroll across the bottom of the screen._

_A swearing-in. Drill sergeant screaming in Brad's face._

  


"NASCAR, huh?" he asks, blinking against the light.

Ray's breath is raspy. "Don't knock it until you've been, man; it's fucking awesome."

  


_Harsh ocean waves, nearly up to Freedom's chest plates. Ahead of them, Assassin is faltering, hot sparks cascading down to blink out in the dark water. The kaiju roars again, rears back on hind legs in the shallow bay. A third swipe of claws and Assassin is falling now. Brad's plasma cannon isn't charging fast enough. "Come on, come on!" Kocher is yelling, his voice echoing through the neural interface._

_The cannon reaches full charge with a whine, and they blast away a full half of the monster's head._

_Assassin disappears beneath the waves._

  


The connection breaks with a jolt. Brad forces himself to take a deep breath against the push of nausea before removing his helmet. Ray's staring at him with wide eyes as the deck crew swarms in to unhook them. "Not now," Brad grits out, and Ray nods. 

The readouts are good; Brad doesn't need paperwork to tell him he and Ray can pilot together just fine. Juneau's latest commander puts the Ranger pin on Ray's BDU lapel and pronounces him graduated, and then Brad stands outside his dorm room door as he packs his few things. 

Ray watches out the window of the helicopter with wide eyes. Brad watches Ray for a while, then leans back against the seat and pulls his cover a little lower over his face. It hasn't even been twenty-four hours.

*

Brad was in his twenties when the first kaiju came through the Breach and the whole world changed. He'd trained for the water, but most of his deployments were in the desert; the sharp sting of sand in hot storms, oil fields that burned through the night, ricochet of bullets off sticky pavement.

He knew both Fick and Wynn back then, before everything divided into _Before_ and _After_. Fick had been the one to tell him about the brand-new Ranger program, as they sat outside a sweltering carport in Baghdad, boots on that same sticky pavement. 

"Machines to fight monsters, huh?" Brad asked quietly. He watched as a few tracers arced through the sky, but far out, nowhere near where they were. There were less, now. The world had much bigger problems. 

"It's new tech. They're looking for volunteers." Fick didn't look at him as he said it, just scuffed his boots over the ground. 

Brad wished he had cigarettes. Not that he smoked all that often, but it would give him something to do with his hands, maybe make the long pauses in their conversation less weighted. "Are you volunteering?"

"I think you should." Fick clasped his hands over his knees, then looked at Brad. In the twilight, most of his face was shadowed by the ragged awnings that rippled overhead. "I'm being reassigned," he said. "To Hong Kong, for now. Then probably near Anchorage. That's where we're building…" he trailed off for a moment, turning his head away again and squinting up at another tracer. "Ours," he finished.

"Anchorage." Brad turned it over in his mind. Far enough from anything, he figured. Fighting machines weren't likely to be powered by clean energy, at least not yet. "How many volunteers are we talking?"

"From what I'm told, the piloting tech doesn't work for everyone since it's a very specific interface. They say it's like you plug directly into the… machine. Robot. I guess they've tried it with just one pilot, but the stress it puts on your nervous system is too much for a single person to handle. So it will be a large group, then whittled down as they figure out the pilots who work well together."

"I thought we agreed I work best alone," Brad said, dry.

Fick smothered a laugh, shaking his head. "You're telling me you don't want to fight monsters?"

A speaker crackled harshly, followed by the muezzin's melodious call from the mosque a few blocks away. Brad leaned down to flick away a large clump of mud on his boot. Then he smiled at Fick and said, "I've never been to Alaska."

*

There's a lot of downtime in between the patrols. Brad ends up spending most of it with Ray, running simulations until Drifting is like breathing, until he dreams Ray's childhood memories, until Ray wakes up with a start, shaking in the middle of the night because he's dreamed Brad's memory of watching Poke go down.

"Sorry," Ray mutters from the bunk above. "Didn't mean to rattle our rack."

"It's okay," Brad sighs. "I'm the one who's sorry. It happens." 

He rolls over onto his back and rubs a hand over his eyes. The room isn't actually dark; it never is, thanks to the emergency lighting track that lines pathways along the floor, illuminated in case they need to run for the door in the dead of night.

A few seconds pass, then Ray's head appears over the edge of the bunk, upside-down. "You okay?" Brad asks him. He think Ray might look upset. It's hard to tell from this angle.

"Want to play cards?"

Brad would rather try to sleep, but: "Sure."

Ray swings down and grabs the deck off the desk. "I'm not awake enough for anything more challenging than Go Fish," Brad warns, stifling his yawn with both hands.

"Same." Ray deals, and they play a few hands in near silence, mumbling their questions.

Brad cracks first. "Okay, what's the story with the lizard?"

"The what - oh, the bearded dragon. It was my aunt's, when I was a kid. Go fish."

"And?" Brad asks, gesturing for Ray to continue. "It shows up a lot, in your mind."

"It got out a lot, I was always chasing it around the house." Ray reorganizes his cards. "It never bit me, though. I think it liked having a human chase it around. It had some stupid name for a lizard... Flower? I think it was actually named Flower."

"That is stupid."

Ray grins at him over his cards. "It had a little collar with a dumb fucking bell on it."

Brad shakes his head as if to convey that the ridiculousness is beyond a reply, and Ray's smile gets wider. It's a good smile; Brad likes seeing it on his face. They've only known each other a month, but he likes Ray - likes his sharpness, his quick responses. He makes fun of Brad endlessly about everything, but that's how almost everyone gets through the day here.

"Brad, are you dealing or what?" Ray asks, bringing Brad back to attention. "If you want to go back to sleep, just say so, dude. I can play solitaire for a while until I doze off again."

"I'm fine. I was just thinking." Brad shuffles the deck and deals them each five cards. 

"Yeah, about what?"

"How fucking weird you are."

Ray snorts. "The bearded dragon wasn't even the most bizarre part of my childhood. Got any sevens?"

*

In November, Brad and Ray are on deck when the kaiju comes through the Breach.

"What's this fucker called again?" Ray shouts, as the 'copter drops them into the ocean with a huge splash. "Iron Balls?"

"Can it and focus, Ray," Brad says, the words automatic.

The kaiju is a bulky motherfucker, an ugly green with heavy plates like armor over its head and down the back, and an electric blue mouth full of sharp-looking teeth that they need to steer clear of. To Brad, the spot under its short arms looks the softest, and he indicates to Ray that they should rack the neutron gun. The kaiju twists before their first shot is off, but the second makes contact, and the monster lets out a pained shriek and swipes at Freedom.

Brad, Ray, and mecha all duck in sync and fire another burst from the gun, blowing the kaiju's arm and shoulder clean off. Suddenly unbalanced, it screams again and falls, sliding beneath the ocean's surface in a dark cloud of alien blood.

"Did we fucking kill it?" Ray shouts. His breathing sounds too loud in Brad's ears

Brad's seen too many kaiju crawl back up. "Let's make goddamned sure it's not going to get up again."

One more neutron burst and a few vicious thrusts of Freedom's sword arm, and the kaiju is for sure dead.

"Score one for the good guys," Brad mutters dryly, mostly to himself. Then he radios LOCCENT. "Kill is confirmed. Come pick us up, and send out the cleanup crew."

"Copy that," Wynn replies. 

Brad feels a faint wave of nausea that's not his own, and looks over at Ray, sees the sweat running down his red face behind the helmet. Ray's eyes look really wide. "You good?" Brad asks softly, nearly a whisper. "I know it's fucking crazy."

Ray takes a deep breath. "Fuck yeah."

"Keep it together, we'll be back on base before you know it."

Patterson swoops down in the helicopter, and they grab the cables for the ride back to the base. Brad can still hear Ray breathing too loudly through the headset, can feel his adrenaline still surging wildly, but he doesn't say anything, just lets Ray be for now. 

Ray is quiet for a long time after they stagger out of Freedom into the basket of the cherry picker. His gait is unsteady, weaving side to side across the metal catwalks that lead out of the jaeger bay, until Brad makes the command decision to grab the back of Ray's sweat-soaked t-shirt and haul Ray against him with a sharp tug, getting his arm tight around Ray's waist. The scent of his sweat is sharp. Brad remembers how he felt after his first kill: sick, exhilarated, and exhausted all at the same time. 

"We'll get something to eat, and then you can sleep," he says quietly into Ray's ear.

"That… I can't…" Ray sags against him without finishing either sentence, but Brad knows what he means. The first one is always the hardest to process. 

"You'll feel better after you get some sleep," Brad promises. 

They're out of the bay now, on concrete floors, and Ray is shuffling. He tilts his head just enough to look at Brad. "What if I just stay awake forever?"

"Then I'll get you something to knock you out." Brad turns them around the corner towards the barracks, keeping his hand tight on Ray's hip as he angles them to mostly avoid a group of mechanics who all attempt to offer congratulatory smiles and tired high-fives.

He opens the door to the quarters they share on and off with Rudy and Pappy. The space is empty and quiet. Ray yawns hugely, the kind that knots up his whole body, so Brad waits a careful second before dropping him on the nearest lower bunk. "You okay to stay here while I run to the dining hall?"

Ray nods. Brad squeezes his shoulder. "Back soon," he says. "Get your boots off." He leaves Ray looking down at the floor like he's not sure where his feet even are, letting the door stand open a few inches just in case. 

There's not much on offer in the dining hall: bananas that are almost overripe, bread that might have been freshly baked earlier in the week, the ever-present tubs of peanut butter and jelly. Brad slaps together a few sandwiches, skips the fruit, and grabs a handful of the vitamin powder packets to mix into bottles of water. 

Over by the cart holding all the cartons of milk, Fick raises an eyebrow at Brad. "You guys okay?" he asks quietly, leaning in.

"Just fine, sir."

His voice drops further. "Are you okay?"

Brad gives him a tired, halfway sort of smile. "Nothing a solid night's sleep won't fix, Nate. But thanks."

"You would let me know if you needed anything, right?" He asks it as though he's sure Brad wouldn't breathe a word.

"Of course."

Fick nods. Brad changes his mind about the bananas and sticks two in his pockets; he and Ray might want something else to eat when they wake up again. Then he heads back to the barracks. Ray seems to be dozing, but his eyes snap open before Brad can get close. "Just some fucking sandwiches," Brad says, feeling vaguely apologetic. 

Ray shrugs. He looks sort of small in the single-man bunk. He stripped down to his shorts and undershirt, and Brad's base-issued green blanket is tucked around his feet. Brad puts the bananas on the table that passes for a desk when they have to do actual paperwork, then hands Ray a sandwich. They eat in silence for a while. Every time Brad blinks he sees the kaiju roaring, sees the water foaming all around them, sees the bright yet flickering lights of the helicopter going back and forth endlessly above their heads, Patterson keeping her up high and out of harm's way. 

Ray slumps against him when they've finished the sandwiches. Brad prods him into staying upright long enough to down a bottle of water, remembering all of Doc's lectures about hydration and nutrients after that sort of fight. The flickers behind his eyelids have calmed, just the residual empty-shell feeling left now from the constant adrenaline and the occasional phantom roar. 

"Brad," Ray mumbles, yawning and turning into him.

Brad gets the empty bottles onto the desk and unwinds the blanket from around Ray's feet so he can get it mostly over both of them. Ray's breath is warm against the hollow of his throat, nearly a too-soft feeling after fighting and killing in the ocean. Brad rubs his shoulder, then adjusts his arms carefully around Ray. "Sleep."

*

They spar the next day, more for something to do than to keep in sync. Wynn informed them they'd get at least forty-eight hours before having to take another watch, which is good; Ray needs a little time out of the suit. Brad can tell that yesterday hasn't worn off yet: Ray's eyes are still too bright despite his near-constant yawning.

They woke up up this morning in an uncomfortable tangle of limbs. The bunks really weren't made for two, and Brad tried to move only to find his arm arm had gone completely numb. "Ray," he whispered, as he freed his other arm to poke Ray in the side. "Go take a fucking shower."

"Go jump off a fucking cliff," Ray mumbled in response, trying to tug the blanket up over his face and only succeeding in squishing himself closer to Brad. 

Ray was warm and didn't smell too awful, but after five seconds, Brad's shoulder started to throb in protest. He tried to curl his fingers and failed.

"My arm is asleep, you need to remove yourself from it," he said as evenly as he could manage. "Please."

Ray squinted at him. "Sorry, homes," he muttered, and rolled out of the bunk. Brad sat up and squeezed the muscles of his arm until the itchy pins and needles feeling subsided, until it felt normal again. Ray stood there yawning for another minute, looking at nothing and clearly trying to wake himself up. His hair stuck up in several directions at once, and there was a red line down his cheek that Brad realized was from Ray's face being pressed against Brad's rucked-up tee all night. 

Then Ray rubbed the crust from his eyes, grabbed his shower bag and shoes, and went out the door. Brad looked over at Rudy and Pappy's bunk, which didn't seem to have been slept in. Their watch had clearly been extended. 

Rudy came in while Brad was ignoring his aching muscles and getting dressed in his PT gear. He offered a tired fistbump and Brad knocked his knuckles against Rudy's. "How's it feel?" Rudy asked.

"Still fucked up."

"You said it, brother. How's Ray taking it?"

Brad shrugged. "I sent him to shower. He passed out pretty hard last night, guess it took a lot out of him."

Rudy was shaking his head and rubbing his hand over the couple days' stubble that shadowed his face. "Putting men in machines to kill some messed-up alien monsters," he said, huffing slightly. "I do it, but I still don't know what to make of it."

"You and me both," Brad replied. Rudy sat down to untie his boots, and Brad left to find some breakfast worth eating. 

"You're not paying attention," he tells Ray now, after Ray only clears Brad's sweeping staff by a few millimeters. "You can get some more sleep in, if you need it."

Ray bounces slightly on his toes and tips his head from side to side, stretching his neck. They're standing close enough that Brad can hear the pop. "Is this weird?" Ray asks quietly. 

Their entires lives are weird. Brad thought that point was well-established. "To which weirdness are you referring?"

Ray shrugs. "This," he says, gesturing between himself and Brad. "Like, you let me sleep in your bed last night, Brad. You held onto me while I was freaking out."

Brad feels suddenly cold and he stiffens. "If my behavior was unacceptable, you only have to tell me, and it won't happen -"

"That's not what I'm trying to say," Ray interrupts, staring at him.

Brad blinks at him for a second, and understands what he means. It's all too easy to be attracted to, then start sleeping with your co-pilot, when you're in their head a great deal of the time and you know them better than you know anybody else at that moment, well enough to finish their sentences and know what they're going to grab at chow almost before they do.

Ray's still looking at him when he says, "It would be a bad idea, right?" 

"It's never a exactly _good_ idea," Brad allows. "The only time - when pilots are already married to each other. Otherwise people stop being able to do their jobs correctly and with focus." He doesn't say, _because they're too busy worrying about the person next to them._

Ray raises an eyebrow. "Okay, well, I can hold myself back from jumping you as long as you can do the same."

"Okay."

"Okay." Ray leans on his staff for a second. "Not that you're not hot," he says, "like, that's all pretty decent looking and in shape and shit," he waves a hand up and down as if to indicate all of Brad's body. 

"Thank you, Ray," Brad says, dry. He files the surprising pleasure he felt at Ray's words away for another time and place, and resettles into his stance. "Ready?"

*

_Pick-up baseball in an empty lot, gravel and skinned knees. The loud pop when the bat and ball make contact. The pop of a rifle, the suck-thunking noise of a grenade launcher. The side of a building coming down while someone screams with terrified laughter. Flushing out caves with the green-tinged night vision that flickers in/out, in/out._

_A swearing-in. The red-faced drill sergeant screaming, his nose inches from Brad's own. Swimming the pool at Pendleton, weighted down with gear. Diving for the bottom and groping for the dumbbell to bring back up. The chlorine stings. Hard to kick in boots._

  


"I see we've all got the same memories of the training pool," he says to Ray, once Desert Freedom is installed on watch at the point, scanning, broadcasting everything back to LOCCENT.

Ray laughs at that. "That fucking pool, man. Like, I get the point. I get why we had to do it. But your lungs sure as fuck don't comprehend that you're not _really_ going to drown."

"You know, I fucking hate the ocean," Brad says, even as he stares out over it. Tonight, the Gulf is calm and the sky overhead is clear. Objectively, it's beautiful. It would be a perfect night to view the Northern Lights, but they're still a few months out from peak season, and Brad's well aware of the superstition voiced continually by not a few people on base that the aurora signify a kaiju will soon surface. "I hated it even before these fucking things started coming out of the bottom of it."

"Yeah, but it's still awesome, amphibious recon." Ray grins as he says it. "And like, invading a place from the ocean. Just rolling on up out of the water."

"Yes, but now we roll up out of the water to fight monsters in a giant robot suit."

Ray laughs. "I was barely out of BRC when I got recruited for this shit, so no ocean invasions for me anyway, homes."

Brad hums slightly, mostly as an acknowledgement. They watch the bay in silence for a while, and it feels comfortable, aside from being on the lookout for giant alien lizard-monsters. Brad's found he doesn't mind just being in the Drift with Ray; that all the goofy childhood memories that Ray brings in with him are pleasant, for the most part. And Ray never says much about what he sees in Brad's memories, just gives him the occasional sad look. Brad appreciates that. He'd rather not discuss watching Assassin fall, or the oppressive silence in their quarters without Poke and Gabe, or Eric requesting a transfer soon after, leaving Brad to cycle through half a dozen Academy trainees in search of a co-pilot. 

He'd never admit it out loud, but the failed trials had started to weigh on him, started an insidious little voice in the back of his head that wondered if he'd ever find anyone who would match up even half as well as Kocher. 

Ray matches up just fine. 

"I spent half my career in the desert," Brad says after another few minutes have passed, picking up the conversation where they'd paused. "After all that training for the water, we got sand instead. Sand and oil. It seems so insignificant now, given this whole fuck-up." 

He gestures, and Desert Freedom gestures, too. "I don't mind rolling into battle in all this robot armor but it sure took some getting used to."

"Fedayeen would have given up a lot quicker if the Corps showed up in a robot suit," Ray replies, laughing. 

The comm clicks. "You guys sure talk a lot of shit," Mike says, warm and dry back in LOCCENT.

"Ain't nothing else to do, Gunny," Ray protests. "Only a couple whales out here tonight."

Brad can see what might be a humpback, way out, which means Ray's been paying more attention to their surroundings than his chatter indicates. Wynn sighs audibly, but clicks back off the radio. "Yo, Brad," Ray says, "you think those whales are fucking?"

*

"There's a girl I met," Ray says a few nights later, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the door. "I'm gonna…"

"Have fun," Brad replies, glancing up from his game of solitaire at the desk to see an odd expression on Ray's face. He adds, "Get some," just to be a dick, and Ray snorts and goes out of the room.

Brad looks down at the cards he's holding. When he realizes he doesn't even know what suit he's staring at, he puts them down, then sweeps them all back into the box.

Fifteen seconds later, he's rapping on the Captain's door. "Remember that thing we don't discuss," he says, when Fick opens the door. He's still in BDUs but with his blouse halfway undone, one hand still on the buttons. Brad's eyes catch on the raggedness of his nails, the grease under them. So Nate still does get around inside the jaegers.

Fick raises both brows, and backs up enough to swing the door wider. "Come on in."

Brad's been in here once before. There's not much to the room, smaller than his communal quarters. Stacks of files cover the desk. "Are you in the middle of that?" he asks, gesturing toward it, figuring he should give Fick a polite out if he wants one.

"Haven't looked at that in weeks." He resumes unbuttoning his blouse. Brad sits down on the chair to get his feet out of the go-fasters. Fick, because he's smart and there's a reason he's in charge, looks at Brad with raised eyebrows. "You and Ray have a fight?"

"No, no fight," Brad answers honestly, ditching his t-shirt. 

"Uh-huh." 

Brad gives him a wary look. "You _do_ want to fuck me, right?" 

"Consent aside, you know this is a bad idea," Fick says, as Brad reaches out and reels him in by the waistband of his trousers, then redirects them both to the shitty metal cot that passes for the Captain's bed in this place.

"Can't be worse than my other plans."

"Ah." It's a long exhale. "Copy that. Sorry, Brad."

"Maybe if this wasn't the world we lived in," Brad replies, trying to move downward on the bed. It creaks loudly. Brad can feel the metal coils of the mattress springs under his knees. He unbuckles Fick's belt with swift fingers. 

Fick exhales audibly, one hand on Brad's head. "You really want to?" he whispers, and the words feel loud in the small room. "Not that I like to deter a person when they might be about to suck my dick, but - I feel like you deserve at least one more out."

"Fuck that. I am definitely about to suck your cock," Brad says, and swiftly unbuttons the fly of Fick's BDUs. "Let me know if I do something you don't like."

Fick hums an affirmative, and his light touch to Brad's scalp grows firmer as Brad frees his cock. Brad's no cocksucking novice, but it's also not something he does all that often; he trusts Fick will say something if he fucks it up. 

There's not much room on the rack, so Brad can't blow Fick and avoid his hands at the same time, even though he came here wanting to give pleasure, and not receive it. "Oh, fucking stop it," Fick hisses, when he tries to dodge Nate's hand on his neck. "Let me touch you."

Brad breathes in sharply through his nose, but allows himself to be still, other than the slow blowjob. It's nice to have something to concentrate on that's not monsters, something raw and human. To listen to the soft pleased noises that Nate's making as Brad goes down on him. It's been years since they last touched one another; that previous time so hurried and desperate and _stupid_.

Not that this time is any less stupid, but the bed is nicer.

_Stop thinking_, Brad tells himself. He relaxes his mouth further, letting Nate move as he wants. Which is apparently to thrust slowly, his cock not quite hitting the back of Brad's throat on each stroke. Brad breathes through his nose and concentrates on the sound of the blood rushing in his ears.

Nate pulls back before he comes, gasps something unintelligible as he grips his cock and strokes hard a few times. The warm wetness of it spatters over Brad's neck and chest, and he thinks blindly that it was good he'd taken his shirt off. He feels Nate's fingers dig into his shoulder. _Stop thinking_.

"Come here," Fick mutters, and slides his hand under the waistband of Brad's gym shorts. Brad lets himself melt back against the shitty pillow, one hand over his eyes, the other running over Fick's thigh. He arches up into the touch slightly, but is mostly content to let Nate do all the work. The full-body sensation is nice, blotting out everything else, and after a few moments he pulls Nate down into a sloppy, directionless kiss. 

Nate's grip is tight, tighter than Brad would tease himself with given the time and under appropriate circumstances, and he finds himself riding the edge sooner than expected. Then Nate eases up slightly, squeezing Brad's balls with his other hand, making him jolt. "Why are you here if you don't really want to be here?" Nate asks, the words direct in Brad's ear. He moves his hand back to Brad's cock and starts jerking him off again - with focus - before Brad can answer.

His head swims when he comes, like he's downed half a bottle of some no-name vodka that burns his throat even as it clouds his brain. And Nate doesn't move away immediately after, just rests his wet hand on Brad's stomach. "You wouldn't be the first, Brad," he says, like he's trying to slip in some wisdom while Brad's brain is still mostly scrambled.

"Focus is more important," he breathes in reply, keeping his eyes closed for now.

"Suit yourself, but don't say I didn't try to give you permission."

_Fuck off, Sir_, Brad wants to say, and knows Nate would take it in the spirit intended, but instead he just listens to Nate twist away and find them something to clean up with. A towel, from the feel of it on his chest. 

"I should go back to my quarters," he says when it's done. He's drowsy enough to not want to move, but he can't stay here on this tiny cot. After a moment, he rolls toward the edge and sits up. The metal creaks ominously as he does. "This was one of my stupider ideas."

"You knocked on my door, Brad." Fick yawns, tucking one hand under his head on the pillow and otherwise not bothering to move. He cuts his gaze to Brad's. "And let's just chalk it up to my respect for you that I won't make you talk any more about why."

"_Talking_," Brad mutters. He jams his feet into his shoes. "Catch you later, sir."

*

"You've had the same song in your head this whole patrol," Brad says to Ray, as Desert Freedom marches slowly along the frozen beach.

Ray looks offended through the clear front of his helmet. "I wasn't humming, Brad; like, I was specifically making sure I wasn't humming!" 

"I can still hear you repeating the chorus to 'Jump Around' over and over," Brad says dryly. They stop walking to turn the jaeger's scanners on the dimming horizon. Brad's beginning to think it looks too calm out there. He activates their lights, then the comm. "Freedom One to LOCCENT."

"Go for Fick."

"Anything on the sonar sweep? It's too still in the bay, I don't like it."

"Standby, Freedom One."

Ray's looking at him questioningly, eyebrows high. "Spidey senses tingling?"

"Something like that."

The comm clicks over again. "Brad," Fick says. His voice is sharp, and Brad feels the kick of _something's wrong_. "There's one closing on the Breach. The gap is just starting. It wasn't there the last sweep, forty-five seconds ago."

Ray whistles under his breath. "I think you got the sight now for sure, homes."

"Quiet, Ray," Brad whispers. "Pull up the view."

In the heads-up display, a radar image flicks to life, overlaying the view of the Gulf ahead of them. There's a dimple in the water two klicks out. Brad can feel the second the adrenaline surges, in both himself and in Ray. "Guess we better wade out, since they won't send the chopper now. We can kill it right when it comes through. You ready?"

There's the distinct sound of Ray's cannon powering up. "Let's get some."

Every part of Brad aches when it's over, and Ray looks no better. Freedom has a long, ugly scrape down one side from the kaiju's claws; the metal will need to be patched. And one of her guns is gone, bitten away by sharp teeth. In the back of Brad's mind he knows sheer luck is the only reason they were able to defeat this kaiju alone. Not skill. Luck, or the grace of some gods, or chance. The words swirl in his head as he struggles out of the jaeger. Even his fingertips are tired. Someone's arm catches him around the waist - Gunny Wynn, concern clear on his face. Brad looks to his right and sees that Nate's grabbed Ray before Ray can fall. 

"Jesus, that was one shithead monster," Wynn says. 

"You're telling me," Brad groans. He feels like he could sleep for a week.

"Freedom won't be going out for a while now." 

Wynn helps him onto the cherry-picker. Brad closes his eyes for the slow descent. "Easy, Ray," he hears Fick say softly next to them, and reaches out with his free hand to squeeze Ray's arm. 

"Ray, you okay?" he asks. 

"Shut up, Brad, you can't even open your eyes," Ray says, but with such fondness that Brad smiles even though it hurts. 

Fick insists Doc check them both out, and Doc packs them off to their quarters with a frown and a stack of snacks and juice boxes, saying something about electrolytes. "I feel like I could sleep for a week," Brad says to Ray, stretched out on his bunk, empty juice box in hand.

Ray's face appears overhead. He's got a Pop-Tart sticking out of his mouth. "Move over," he mumbles around it.

"I don't want Pop-Tart crumbs in my rack."

"Too bad."

Brad tosses the empty box in the direction of the trash, then moves over so Ray can climb in. He offers Brad a piece of the Pop-Tart, so Brad takes it. He can eat lying down just fine. With his free hand, he pulls Ray a little closer. "You're not as shook up as the last one," he says.

"No."

Brad yawns so hard his jaw pops. Ray's chewing loudly next to his ear, but he doesn't mind, at least not right now. He lets his eyes close and tries to think about nothing for a few minutes, concentrating on keeping only the darkness on the inside of his eyelids, not wanting to dwell on what they'd faced in the water. 

They finish their snacks and Ray shifts closer. Normally, Brad would protest, but tonight he only puts his arm around Ray and lets Ray roll halfway on top of him. "We're okay," he murmurs into Ray's ear, touching his hair gently. "We're okay."

"I'm probably going to have nightmares about that fucker," Ray grumbles, but thankfully he doesn't sound as completely out of it as he did the last kaiju they had to take down, and he's not clinging as tightly. 

"Yeah, me too," Brad admits. He lets his hand slide down to touch the back of Ray's neck. Gently, without pressure. 

Ray presses a thumb hard to Brad's bottom rib. "I thought you said…"

"I know what I said." He hooks his thumb in the collar of Ray's tee, and leaves it there. "Get some sleep, Ray. We're looking at a long day of repairs tomorrow. Sniper can only cover so much before Rudy and Pappy drop dead of exhaustion."

"Fuck sleep," Ray sighs, but Brad can feel all his muscles loosening. "Brad… I saw in your memories…"

"I know," Brad murmurs. 

"Could have told me." Ray somehow tucks himself even closer. Brad feels his breathing grow shallow and even, and his tight grip slackens as he falls asleep. 

_I didn't need to tell you_, Brad thinks, as exhaustion begins to overtake him, _I knew you'd just see it. We don't need any fucking words in the Drift._

*

"Come on, Ray, I've got twenty bucks on this," Brad calls out, and Ray smirks back at him over his shoulder before lining up at the edge of the mat, Rudy on the opposite side.

Pappy points at each of them. "Gentlemen, today's rules… ah, hell, no rules. Just no broken bones. And you better be able to pilot. Got it?"

"Got it, Sergeant," Ray replies. 

Brad folds his arms over his chest, leaning back against the wall. He watches Ray stretch his arms out for a moment. Pappy comes over to stand next to Brad, and Brad tilts his head slightly towards Pappy and murmurs, "Rudy's going to wipe the floor with him but I figured I'd give him the confidence boost of a bet."

"Aw, Brad. That's why you two are Drift compatible." Pappy rolls his eyes, and Brad elbows him none too lightly. 

Ray keeps up with Rudy for several minutes straight, the long wooden sticks clicking against one another, no parry or thrust too hard. They cross the mats several times, first Rudy forcing Ray back nearly out of the circle, then Ray forcing Rudy back. Then Ray sweeps at Rudy's feet just as Rudy tips his stick forward. The movement goes awry, and Ray yelps, clapping a hand over his face. "Fuck!"

"Well, shit," Pappy says. 

Brad can see bright red blood between Ray's fingers, but it's not running down his hand with any speed. "Ray, is your eye intact?"

"My eye is fine," Ray grumbles. "Just - get me a towel or something to wipe off the blood."

There's a stack of threadbare towels in the corner for people to use, and Brad grabs two and wets them from a bottle of water. With one, he pulls Ray's hand away from his face, and with the other, he wipes off all the blood obscuring the injury. Ray's eyebrow is split open, but it doesn't look like Rudy caught his eye at all. The cut is still oozing blood, but it's sluggish. Brad doesn't think it's worth stitches.

"Busted your forehead, but that's it, your eye looks fine," Brad says. He folds the damp towel and presses it to the cut, then pushes on Ray's hand until he holds it there. "It should stop in a minute."

"Fuck off, Brad." Ray's words are muffled by the fabric. 

"Maybe we shouldn't bet on the sparring matches anymore," Pappy says faintly from the other side of the mat. "Fuck, Rudy, ain't you gonna apologize?"

Rudy still looks a little shellshocked at what he'd done. "It was an accident, Ray, I didn't mean to land that -"

"I know you didn't do it on purpose, damn," Ray mutters. "Now leave me the hell alone."

Brad slides his arm around Ray's shoulders and gives Rudy a _what are you going to do?_ look where Ray can't see, then steers Ray out of the gym and in the direction of their quarters. "Now your face will be extra fucked up," he says, falsely cheerful, and Ray sticks an elbow in his ribs, but only lightly. He doesn't try to move out from under Brad's arm. 

"All right, let me look at it again quick and then I'll go get you some antibiotic stuff from Doc," Brad says once Ray's sitting on his bunk. Ray takes the towel away from his face. His eyebrow area is puffy, and Brad figures he'll get a good shiner out of this, but the small cut seems to have stopped bleeding. He frowns up at Brad, and Brad squeezes his shoulder. "Back in a few minutes."

Doc's in the little office attached to the medical bay, playing solitaire with what looks to Brad like a homemade deck. The cards have little kaijus drawn on them; some cartoon, some stylised, some straightforward sketches. "You make that?" Brad asks, leaning over his shoulder.

"The shitty ones that look like kindergarten, yeah. Then Rudy did a couple, Ray one or two, that new kid - Christopherson or Christeson or whatever his name is." Doc puts the cards down and looks up at Brad. "What do you need, you wouldn't be here otherwise."

"Rudy busted up Ray's eyebrow sparring, so I need antibacterial."

Doc rolls his eyes and gets up from his chair. "Stop fucking fighting, you morons."

"You know that'll never happen," Brad replies. "What the fuck else would we do with our downtime?" 

Doc hands him a packet of ointment and a few bandages with a scowl, and tells him to get the fuck out. Brad grins, then blows him a kiss for good measure, on Ray's behalf. 

"All right," he says, back in quarters, spinning the desk chair around to straddle it. "Let's get you patched up. It hurt?"

Ray shrugs loosely. "Not really, now that I think about it. Stings mostly. And at least there ain't still blood dripping in my eye." 

Brad's had plenty of field medicine training, and he gets the cut cleaned up and carefully bandaged in moments. "There," he says, smoothing down the last edge of the skinny Band-Aid, then brushing a few wayward strands of Ray's hair away from the far side of it. "You need a haircut." 

"Fuck you, I don't." Ray reaches up to his face, like he can't help himself, and pats the area gingerly. "Thanks for fixing me up, I guess.

Brad knocks his hand away from the spot. "Quit it." 

"There's a giant Band-Aid right by my eyeball, Brad, I gotta get used to it."

"You need me to kiss it like your mom would have?"

Ray frowns, but his cheeks redden slightly. "Fuck off."

Brad grins, then pats Ray's thigh lightly before sweeping the trash into the bin. "Cards?"

"Yeah, yeah, what else are we going to do?" Ray asks, and grabs the deck.

*

"Brad, could I have a second?" Fick asks, as Brad's dumping his trash from chow.

"You bet, Sir."

Fick has a tiny office at the back of LOCCENT; it's barely any bigger than the humvees they'd rattled around in in Iraq. With a skinny desk jammed in the space and piled high with readouts and reports, it's probably smaller overall. Fick has to turn sideways to slide behind the desk and sit down. Brad waits at parade rest, but Fick just waves him toward the other chair that's tucked up against the wall. 

"I'm sure you've been paying attention to the date," Fick says quietly once Brad's settled. 

This conversation is probably going to be what Brad figured it was. He drums his fingers on his thigh for a second before he says, "Truthfully, I sort of hoped the CG forgot about me."

"I held it back."

"You what?" Brad asks, leaning forward to look Fick straight in the eyes. 

"It's been on my desk for two weeks." Fick lifts a sheet of paper and Brad can see the CG logo stamped across the top. "You said it yourself, you hoped they forgot about you," he adds, tone dry, before his face softens slightly. "Brad. I can't keep letting you go out there and fight monsters when you're not supposed to be fighting monsters anymore."

Brad keeps his eyes on the paper so he doesn't have to meet Fick's gaze. "I don't suppose you could pretend you lost it." 

"I was trying, but CG called earlier today. You've been a good pilot. They want you to teach at the Academy. Show the kids how to fight without killing themselves in the process. And I think you'll be good at that, too."

Fick hands the paper over, and Brad reads it carefully, even though it's only a few lines. Then he folds it in half, in half again, and slides it into his breast pocket. "Thank you, Sir," he says crisply, and stands up.

"Brad," Fick says quietly. In the odd soft light of the desklamp, he looks almost as young as he had in Iraq. "I really am sorry to lose you here."

"Me too," Brad murmurs, and raps his knuckles lightly on the doorframe before he leaves.

*

"My jaeger rotation is up," Brad says, staring out at the dark water. It seems darker than usual, as though there are barely any stars, but Brad knows that's only the cloud cover making him think that. It's the sort of calm cold that indicates snow is on the horizon. "I've been reassigned to the Academy for the next year. Teaching."

Ray doesn't say anything right away. When he does, it's to ask how much longer Brad has left.

"Two weeks." Were they not in the jaeger, Brad would look down, pretend to pick at a cuticle or rub a scuff from his boot, but here he just keeps looking out at the bay. He adds, "You'll be fine, they'll find you another co-pilot."

"Brad," Ray says, barely more than a breath, audible only due to the comms.

Brad turns off the function that transmits everything they say back to LOCCENT before continuing. "You'll be fine, Ray. You're good at this."

"_Brad._" Ray sounds annoyed this time, and Brad looks over, can see that Ray's frowning through the faceplate of his helmet. "Come on. You know how I -"

"How you feel?" Brad asks, as calm as he can make it. "You'd feel worse now if we'd fucked while still having to drift, and you know I'm right about that. You can't get that caught up in someone else's head, it's too -" he pauses, unsure of how else to put it. "It's too much."

Ray frowns harder. "Quit fucking frowning at me," Brad adds.

"Well, what about once you're out? You just said it, you've only got two weeks left."

"And then I'll be on a chopper to the Academy immediately." He looks back out at the water once more. "When you're done with all this, you can come and find me. When _you're_ done, Ray. When you're out. So your head is clear, and not mixed up with mine or anyone else's. And who knows, maybe by that point all this kaiju bullshit will be over." 

"Yeah, okay."

"You know I'm right."

"I know, Brad," Ray murmurs. 

"Just because I pushed you away doesn't mean I -"

"I _know_, Brad," Ray repeats, and Brad feels it through the Drift. Then Ray slants him a querying look, and Brad feels distinctly uncomfortable immediately. "It's still fucking stupid, man." 

Brad sighs and wants to rub a hand over his face, but there's plexiglass in the way. He settles for closing his eyes for a moment. "I don't disagree that it's bullshit, all right? But so is the fact that we're fighting giant fucking lizards with giant robots. None of it makes sense. And the last thing I want is for you to lose focus and _die_. Period."

The silence lasts so long that Brad opens his eyes again and looks over at Ray. "What?"

"The bad shit that happened to you, man, I'm sorry," Ray murmurs. "No one should have to see -"

"It's my problem to deal with," Brad interrupts, and his voice is sharper than he intends.

Ray only shakes his head and gives Brad that _you're an idiot_ look. "Okay, I'm going to say this and hope you don't take it the wrong way, but - I hope you find a professional you can talk to once you're out of here. I really do."

Brad looks back out at the calm water, the flat darkness of the clouds. In the back of his mind, he sees Assassin falter, fall, and disappear. "Yeah. Me too."

*

  


"Damage to your jaeger is like damage to you," Brad intones, looking out at the half dozen, clean cut, clear-eyed faces staring back at him. "It will be painful, but the pain will be in your mind, and that's something you can control."

  


*

The door to his quarters is open.

Brad reaches automatically for a sidearm that hasn't been on his hip in years. "You think I couldn't reroute that lock, homes?" comes a familiar voice, and Brad grins despite himself, his gaze finding Ray leaning against the wall with his arms folded over his chest, grinning back at him. 

He drops his rations bag to the floor - fuck the eggs, seriously - and grabs Ray by the front of his t-shirt. 

"Took you long enough to get here," he growls in Ray's ear, and pulls him down the short hallway to what passes for a bedroom in these staff quarters. "How much longer were you going to keep me waiting?"

Ray grins. Brad shoves him down on the small bed and stares down at him. He wants to touch Ray everywhere, isn't sure where to even start. Ray's in jeans and a tee, a hoodie that's too thin for Juneau in September. His hair is slightly longer on top; there's a piece sticking up oddly like it was blown that way by the wind. Brad's fingers itch to fix it. 

"First," Ray says, wiggling backwards and kicking his feet free of his sneakers as he goes, "I do need to know, after all that bullshit you read me. You get your head sorted out?"

Brad had, actually. One of the Academy's three psychological counsellors had an impressive resume and appeared competent at first meeting, and hadn't been bothered by the fact that it took Brad three sessions of saying almost nothing before he could even begin to talk about his time as an active-duty Ranger. 

"Yes."

"Good." Ray pulls his shirt up over his head, revealing a tattoo winding over his ribcage that hadn't been there before. Brad blinks at it even as Ray asks, "Was it bad? Did you have to cry in the shower after?"

"Ray," Brad says, now unable to control the laughter rising in his chest, bubbling up in a way that borders on painful, "shut up." 

Ray grins back at him. "Take your fucking clothes off, would you?"

As Brad starts to undress, Ray says, "So clearly we've waited a while to do this -"

"_Clearly._"

"- but I just want to be sure, dude, that you know I've got a dick -"

"Ray," Brad says, tossing his BDU blouse to the side and starting on his belt, "you really have to shut the fuck up."

Ray's grin widens. He slides his hand into his boxers. Brad watches as the shapes of his fingers move, unmistakeably; watches a flush creep up Ray's chest and throat and into his face, watches him suck his lower lip into his mouth and bite down. 

Listens to Ray make a couple noises that Brad's heard before, but had pretended he didn't. 

"You're not getting undressed fast enough," Ray says, his gaze fixed pointedly on Brad's hand where it's paused at his fly, and Brad extends his middle finger before continuing with the zipper. He shoves the whole collection down from his hips and kicks his legs free, then kneels on the bed between Ray's shins. 

"You know, I've seen it before, but there's just -" Ray's words are easily stopped by Brad's mouth, and Brad's not surprised to taste coffee as he moves up a little, one hand on Ray's shoulder and pressing him back against the pillows propped to the wall. 

Brad feels Ray's hand curl around his bicep and stay there, warm, for a few seconds as they kiss without hurry. Ray's mouth is slick, and somehow soft, and his light stubble isn't too bad rasping against Brad's own. He cups his fingers around Ray's chin and sucks on his lower lip until he feels Ray shudder. 

"Really, though, I've never fucked around with another guy," Ray says, the words all in one rush of air against Brad's cheek. 

Brad feels his jaw drop slightly. He leans back enough to look Ray in the eyes. "Is that what you were trying to tell me before, with the whole 'you know I've got a dick, Brad, right?' thing?"

"Kinda." Ray rubs a hand over his reddened mouth, laughs a little like he can't believe they're having this conversation. "I just thought you should know, dude."

"Well. Thanks for telling me, before I continued to assume you'd touched dick before."

"I've touched _my own_."

Brad swallows his laugh. "We would have an entirely different problem to solve if you hadn't done that before."

"Fuck. Off." Ray squirms slightly, raking one hand down Brad's arm, not hard enough to scratch but enough that Brad feels the phantom of it once Ray's curled his fingers around Brad's wrist. Brad rotates his hand in Ray's grip, lifts Ray's arm so he can press a kiss to the thin skin and feel the warmth of Ray's pulse.

"How was it after I left?" he asks quietly.

"Took a few weeks, but they found me another co-pilot." Ray shakes his head, the movement small. "It was fine. We killed a few together, but I never - it wasn't the same as when I was with you."

He frowns, and Brad waits for whatever it is he's going to say. Which turns out to be: "I had to be the one to get snacks and shit."

"You liked it better when I got the snacks?" Brad leans in, kisses Ray's neck. 

"Yeah."

Brad works his hand into Ray's hair for a moment, and feels more than hears Ray sigh in pleasure. Then he continues his lazy downward movement, laying kisses as he goes: the hollow of Ray's throat, across the lines of his collarbones, each nipple in turn. The hand he's got in Ray's hair slides down over his face, and then Brad feels Ray's mouth chase his fingertips for a few seconds. 

He spends some time on the stretch of skin with the tattoo - a serpentine kaiju, wound over Ray's side, the artwork looking distinctively Japanese in inspiration. "Rudy sketch this for you?" he asks, tracing the lines.

"He fixed up my shitty drawing, yeah," Ray breathes, and Brad feels the rise and fall of his chest. "One of the new dudes used to be a tattoo artist, he did it for me the last few weeks of my tour."

"It's not awful."

"You can't talk about shitty tattoos," Ray says with a scowl, and Brad gives him a wide smile before continuing his downward path. At Ray's hips, he pauses, and Ray pushes lightly on the side of his head. "Do it."

Brad tugs his briefs down and swallows Ray's cock all in one fluid movement. Ray groans, loud in the small room, and Brad feels hands squeeze at his shoulders. He breathes in through his nose and relaxes his jaw, puts on hand on Ray's hip and tugs, just slightly. "You can't want me to -" Ray mutters, and Brad looks up at him and raises his eyebrows. "_Fuck_, Brad."

Brad squeezes the muscle of Ray's thigh and exhales, hears the ringing in his own ears as he takes Ray a little deeper. Ray's hips twitch and he makes a low noise, before Brad feels a hand on his head, sliding carefully over his hair. Then he feels Ray's fingers curve gently over his ears.

He pulls off. "You can. Do it," he says, then reapplies his mouth. 

Ray groans. His hips shift minutely. Brad leans up over him, boxing Ray's limbs in with his own, and relaxes his mouth again. Ray rolls his hips, thrusting but only shallowly, and above the sound of his own breathing Brad can hear the sharp inhalations and shaky exhalations of Ray's. He lets his tongue curve along the underside of Ray's cock, and Ray groans loudly, fingertips skidding over Brad's cheeks.

The part of him not concentrating on sucking Ray's dick and getting enough oxygen at the same time thinks that maybe he could ask Ray to fuck him, but a second later he thinks that might be too much, too intense, for their first time. 

"Don't you want me to do something for you?" Ray gasps out, when Brad pulls off but doesn't stop skimming his mouth over the thin, hot skin of Ray's cock.

"You don't think this is doing anything for me?" He kisses his way back up Ray's torso, feels Ray's fingers squeeze at the back of his neck. Then he rubs his cock against Ray's thigh and watches Ray's face. "Did you want to touch?"

"Fuck, dude." Ray sounds genuinely shocked, so Brad moves back, far enough that they're not touching.

"Did I -"

"Where are you -"

"If you're not ready for this just tell me," Brad manages to say, doing his best to ignore the stone that's now sinking in his stomach, something cold pooling around it. He hadn't thought about this past Ray showing up, hadn't thought about what could happen once they got their clothes off, hadn't thought about what to do if Ray had never done this before.

"Brad, _fuck_, come back here." Ray yanks him in by the shoulders, sliding their mouths together again. He nips at Brad's bottom lip, enough to sting, and his fingertips press hard against Brad's skin. "Brad," Ray says again, "you sucking my dick like that was amazing and now I would like to touch you, okay, get the fuck out of your own head for fifteen seconds and let me jerk you off or whatever."

"...okay," Brad breathes out. 

Ray gets a hand around him, hesitant at first, but gaining confidence. He's watching Brad's face, which makes Brad shiver almost as much as Ray's actual touch. Brad angles his thigh so that Ray can arch up against it and get some friction, then ducks his head to kiss Ray again. With the hand not holding himself up, he strokes over Ray's ribs, feeling the muscles tighten there. 

"Fuck, Ray," he hears himself gasp, as Ray's thumb skids over the head of his cock, sending a jolt of electricity up his spine. He hasn't had sex since that ill-advised visit to Fick's quarters last year, and his own hand offers little beyond the promise of better sleep after an orgasm. 

"I keep thinking it feels weird to do this while we aren't in the Drift," Ray says. The words are mumbled against Brad's neck; he feels Ray's tongue press against the spot where his pulse is likely pounding the hardest. Then Ray adds, "You taste good," and Brad has to kiss him again, everything starting to grow hot and bright. 

He gets his free hand around Ray's cock in some barely-thought desire for Ray to get off before he does. Over the rising sound of his own blood in his ears, he says to Ray, "I can't believe you waited a year for me."

"Fuck, Brad, what the _fuck_ -" Ray shudders as Brad squeezes his cock, then gives as good as he gets and rubs his fingertips over the most sensitive spot on Brad's. Brad feels like his lungs are screaming, thinks nonsensically of the training pool at Pendleton, of water closing over his head and the strange silence that came with it. 

He feels Ray's teeth scrape his shoulder, then the twist of Ray's body and a wetness in his hand. Nothing more than a gasp escapes Ray as his mouth drops open and his back arches, his eyelashes dark against his winter-pale face, and Brad feels the drag of Ray's heel down the back of his calf. 

After a few seconds, the hand Ray's got around his cock starts moving again, slowly. "You don't have to drag it out," Brad says; the words are distorted by how he can't get his mouth to move right and how he feels like his eyes are rolling back in his head. He thinks he hears Ray make a tsk-ing sort of noise, right before Ray says something like how he'll make it last as long he wants, fuck if he doesn't enjoy the way Brad's losing it right now.

"I'm not losing it," Brad tries to reply, and fails, just rolls his hips and pushes his cock through the circle of Ray's fingers until he comes, and even though the orgasm feels like a wave breaking over him, it's not dark for once. He leaves his mouth against Ray's neck; it's nice there.

"There's a box of tissues on the nightstand on your side," Brad says, when he can speak in words again. "Grab some, would you?"

"Fuck off, I'm not moving," Ray grumbles, but after another few seconds pass, he rolls over, and Brad hears the sound of tissues being pulled free. Ray shoves one into his hand, and they clean up enough that it won't be gross if they stay in the bed a while longer. 

Brad presses his mouth to the hinge of Ray's jaw once he's done and whispers that he's glad Ray showed up after all. A hand slaps at his shoulder, then slides up to squeeze the back of his neck. "Where else was I going to go?"

"I don't know - home, maybe?"

Ray makes a dissatisfied noise, then shifts closer. "But you invited me so nicely."

Brad allows a smile and pulls Ray even further into his arms. 

"We're gonna do this again, right?" Ray asks, his hand still on Brad's neck.

"Guess we never talked about the future, not really," Brad replies, feeling stupid a second after the words leave his mouth, because that's not at all what Ray meant. Whatever, they're tired and sweaty and Brad's a little amazed either of them can string together a coherent sentence right now, much less several of them.

"We were busy chopping at fucking lizard monsters with swords," Ray mumbles around a yawn, "so you get a pass on that one."

Brad presses a kiss to Ray's shoulder in acknowledgement. Ray makes a contented sound and turns over comfortably, tugging first the sheet and then Brad's arm over his waist. The sun's gone down now, and there's barely any light coming in through the small square window of Brad's quarters where it faces directly out towards Fire Island. 

"What are you going to do now?" Brad asks, the question murmured mostly to the back of Ray's neck. 

Ray moves his shoulder up a little in an approximation of a shrug, and the warm fabric tucked around them rustles. "Not sure."

"You could stay here."

"I could stay here," Ray says, and Brad tightens the arm he's got around Ray, just slightly. Just enough.


End file.
